A hulking old Remington typewriter - standard no 12 model - seen over the shoulder of a young man in a white shirt. His fingers dance freely, striking keys with a jazz-like skittering precision. The black of the machine's body is scuffed, but its golden trim and carriage are spotlessly clean. The man glances over his shoulder then quick snap back to the page. He pushes out the carriage return lever - slide and clunk, clunk, starts his new line, stops. Checks over his shoulder again - nothing. The year is 2156, the world has ended and carried on, and this is it.
And this is it.
A man at a desk - rectangular, dull steel - in the centre of a vast empty warehouse. He stares down at a photo in a small silver frame - a woman - beautiful, her eyes dull, grey. The man blinks, his face changed, heavy with memories. Close-up: his mouth tense, tightening, bottom lip squeezed by top tooth biting. He looks back to the page, shifts his weight in his chair, fills his chest with a deep breath, resumes typing. Zoom right in: for the first time we can read his words:
"'Stories have always been special,' she said, 'you must remember that.' And she pulled the blanket up to his chin. 'But this one - the one I will tell you tonight - is perhaps most special of all.' and her bright blue eyes glinted like sunlight through waterfalls. 'Most special of all,' she said 'because this story is about a man who wrote stories - stories that were so right and so true, they had the power to change the world around them."
Cut to an open window in the same wareouse. The writer stands framed within it, smoking, looking out at the night. Long shot: clusters of concrete box huts, a shack with a blue tarpaulin roof. Seen from above this sprawling, low-level city of gloom and blinking lights could be a carpet of fallen stars.
Suddenly a scattering of lights go out, a snaking path of darkness through the city, winding closer, inevitably closer. Quick pan to the typewriter and back - all out of focus. The darkness arrives, and within it we notice three figures, three giant men, stood in a line: baseball bats, face all tats, hoods up. A wooden sign on the warehouse fence says "Private". They push it aside.
Back to the writer: Fists clench and unclench. He grabs the story, grabs the picture off the desk - turns fast. Cut to the door: the three men blocking his path.
"The story - now," the leader speaks, his face tattoos of random letters.
The writer shifts his weight from foot to foot searching for exits but there's no route through.
"Why today?..I...mean..I-I don't have it...I..."
Two hoods step forward, push the writer to the wall. One punch to the gut he doubles over, falls - foetal position. Takes a couple cracks from the bat to his back. The leader bends down, snatches the story, turns, leaves. The two henchmen follow.
We can hear the writer breathe and hear that every breath is hard. He pulls himself to sitting, waits until the men's footsteps are no longer audible from the yard. Shifts his weight to take the photo form his back trouser pocket. The glass is cracked. He turns it upside-down so the fragments drop to the floor, and looks once more at the picture. The woman: still beautiful, but her eyes now bright blue.
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